You Machine
by FionaTailynn
Summary: "Sherlock… you machine!" Those words ring through his head, every day, every hour and every second of his life... Sometimes, it's better to forget why you're doing something than to remember the pain it's causing you.
1. Shutting down

Sherlock…_ you machine!_

Those words ring through his head, every day, every hour and every second of his life.

He doesn't know much, although he is pretty sure he once has. Right now all he knows is that he is needed to destroy someone. Or something. He can't really tell the difference.

He doesn't know why he's doing this; it has something to do with that voice that haunts him while he sleeps:

When he sleeps things happen to him; things, which shouldn't happen to a machine. He can't quite explain them, but the memories remaining from his rests are usually pushed away anyway.

He holds the gun coldly against the last object - or is it maybe a person? - And pulls the trigger.

_Sherlock… you machine!_

The voice repeats. If it weren't all the time that he'd hear it echoing in his mind, maybe he would feel such a thing as pain. But machines don't sense pain. They extract it. Which is also why he knows so little…

But wait, the _last_ thing was eliminated. Now what? He has no more cause; nothing more worth…

No, one couldn't call this living. But it's hard to figure out what this is.

Nothing is left for him. So maybe he should just decommission himself. Pull his plug, self-destruct, something, anything to end it all.

The gun is now pointing at the being, the machine, the thing that is the remainders of what was once someone who named himself the consulting detective, more commonly known as Sherlock. He probably would've extracted that useless information as well, but the voice that follows him everywhere keeps reminding him by whispering it at every point in his memory that he still has.

He stares at the gun barrel. His lip quivers lightly. Was that an actual quiver?

Just when he wants to add that last bit of pressure to the trigger so that this is all over, the voice in his head starts screaming:

_Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine!_

There it is. That pain mentioned earlier; very real and very… painful.

This feeling can't be explained in any other way. His eyes close tightly and his hand starts shaking very hard.

He pulls the trigger and then darkness.

_**A/N: So I had this idea and when i get ideas I have to start working on them. I'm planning to make these very short chapters of 1000 words at most. Hope you enjoy them! And sorry for that cliffhanger ;D **_


	2. Loading

_Sherlock… you machine!_

The same voice resonates in his head. Only, he hears _himself_ screaming it at his friend. Only he still knows everything that happened, knows why it's there: He screams it at himself because of the guilt. The guilt that he let his friend fall, that he _literally_ let him down. He always blamed himself for his friend's death, only now… he isn't dead. He's lying next to him in a hospital bed. He's _real._

_And he tried to kill himself. Again._

He'd shot himself in the chest, but hadn't hit any vital organs, like a miracle: _his_ miracle. After almost bleeding to death, he was found and quickly brought into the hospital where they found out who he was and quickly called him.

Since then some time had passed. He simply sits there, awaiting the awakening of the great detective, eager to hear his explanation to what exactly happened three years ago.

"Wake up…." He whispers, stroking the pale hand of the unconscious body beside him. He sighs, still staring at the face he didn't think he'd ever see again, just wondering what could've drove him to trying to take his own life, not just once but twice.

_Sherlock… you machine!_

Oh. Maybe that.

Had his words really gotten to him? And if so, why did he then remain 'dead' and attempt it again so much later? Maybe Sherlock was better off without him…

_Sherlock… you machine!_

The voice repeats louder, reminding him again of what a horrible thing he said the last time they were face to face. But then he realizes. He _can_ apologize, and everything _can _go back to normal, and for the first time since the fall, the voice in John's head stops. For a moment he's relieved but then he just wishes for one of Sherlock's deductions to break the silence again.

The only thing he can hear right now is Sherlock's barely audible breathing, his own unsteady, iregular huffs and the slight beeping of the machine taking his pulse.

"Wake up, now. Please…" He says, desperate to hear his voice again.

_**A/N: Yeah so there isn't much story in this, sorry! It was just a bit to clarify what happened in the last chapter, though I really didn't that much XD Anyways, hope you enjoy!**_


	3. File Not Found

_He stands on the rooftop, the mobile in his left hand, while holding out the other to John. How he wishes that he could feel the touch of a human one more time before this would all start. Sherlock throws his phone away and looks far off into the distance. He lifts his arms, takes one last breath and leaps._

_During his fall he thinks a lot:_

_I'm doing this all so they won't get hurt, hurting them in the process. Then I won't be able to talk to any in weeks, months, or even years… Maybe it's better not to know, not to know why I have to do this… I don't think I can take seeing them being hurt._

_So that's what he does. Subtracts the painful memories piece by piece while time passes… until nothing of him is left._

"Wake up now, please…" a soft voice whispers. It isn't unlike the one, of which the memory hurts his head to think of, but it's friendlier and welcoming.

_You can't deem a voice "friendly"! You're a machine. Remember?_ Another voice says.

"Sherlock?" the voice mumbles gently, and he can clearly feel the warmth of a hand on his own.

Wait. Why does he know what a hand feels like? And why does it comfort him?

His eyes slowly open. He can tell that there is something in front of him. Something that should've always been there, but he can't recognize what it is.

"What happened, Sherlock?" hearing this voice somehow manages to turn off the screaming in his ears, so that the unwanted pain from the other voice finally goes away for a second and he feels something else: Relief.

"I'm not mad at you, at least not for now. Now please, say something."

The thing is asking something of him. He wants to open his mouth and answer but when he tries to let out a sound, he realizes that he's forgotten how to speak as well. Or maybe, he just isn't able to.

"What's going on, Sherlock? Talk to me! I wasn't able to hear your voice for three years. Please…"

The voice is begging him now. He still isn't sure what he's looking at, but he knows that its presence is comforting.

"What really happened on that roof top?" it asks.

_That's where it all began…_

He tries to say it, though he doesn't know what it means, but he just ends up choking on his words. He leans forward and tries to regulate his breathing. Again he feels the warmth of a hand, this time on his back.

"Whoa… calm down, it's fine. It's all right. You're going to be okay, Sherlock."

Again he tries to say something, but it just comes out as some incoherent mumbling.

"Just let it out. I know you have something to say."

The hand gently caresses his back. He continues to babble something, tears filling his eyes. It seems like the emotions from so long ago are kicking back in. Maybe he isn't a machine after all…

Just when the thought crosses his mind the yelling starts again:

_Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! Sherlock… you machine! _

He lets out a screech of pain and puts his hands on his head, shaking. Then, the first words pass his lips, the first words he can remember ever saying

"M-Make… it stop." He says weakly.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" A voice interrupts and the screams stop. But then he notices, the two are identical: The voice haunting him and the voice comforting him. How can that be?

He weakly opens his eyes and looks. But really looks this time. Finally he recognizes a face. A face that's smiling at him, but suddenly he can see it growling at him:

_You machine!_

He shakes his head and blinks the image away.

"No…" he whispers.

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

"I don't… I don't… I don't… I don't… I don't… I don't…"

No! That's not what he wants to say!

_Finish that sentence!_

"…Know." He sighs.

"What happened? Why are you looking at me like you don't know me?" The voice is becoming very desperate.

He closes his eyes and murmurs: "Memory deleted…"

"W-What? Why did you do that?" He can feel the hurt in the voice.

He wishes he knew the reason, but that memory was deleted as well.


	4. Searching for Result

Since Sherlock's awakening, none of his questions had been answered. But more importantly, why did he delete him? It made the fact that he'd tried to kill himself make less sense. Although maybe there are different reasons for the two times…

His eyes begin to tear and he holds Sherlock's hand tighter than before.

"You… why…" is all he manages to say before feeling the moisture runs down his cheeks.

But the worst part is: It seems as though Sherlock honestly has no clue. He looks confused and… it isn't hurt but…

_Sherlock… you machine!_

No. He isn't that. John knows that his friend isn't that, and he knows that he shouldn't let those words from so long ago get to him, yet he does.

_Sherlock… you machine!_

He also just wants to hold onto his head but he doesn't want whatever is left of his best friend to watch him break down like that. Instead John concentrates on Sherlock's features:

Not much has changed, but he seems to be thinner than usual, and he has dark circles under his eyes. Everything about the man lying on the bed in front of him looks like Sherlock Holmes, but it's all like a puzzle piece forced into position with violence; nothing fits quite correctly

He seems to want to say something so badly, but only manages to let sighs out.

"What is it? What do you want to tell me?" _…Even if you don't know who I am._

"S-sorry." Sherlock finally says.

"What for?" John asks, in hope that Sherlock does remember something of him. But he just shakes his head and stares at him with a glazed look.

"Sherlock…." John murmurs after a while. He looks up at him, it seems as though his name is the only thing he recognizes for whatever reason

"Why did you delete me?" he asks.

He glares at him for a couple seconds, then suddenly holds onto his temples, closes his eyes and violently shakes his head.

"No!" he yells.

"Why are you acting like this?" John asks, remembering that the last time he spoke while this happened, it had suddenly stopped. But this time it just seems to worsen. Sherlock begins to scream in pain, and as much as John tries to calm him down nothing happens.

"B-because… I'm… a machine." He says as if he's being threatened or forced to say this, but suddenly he seems to be completely relieved after having said it.

Oh. So this is John's fault.

"Coat." Is all Sherlock says.

John turns to the chair, on which the coat is neatly folded. He reaches for it, and searches through it, until he finds a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolds it and recognizes Sherlock's handwriting.

_Dear John,_

_If you are reading this, either I am dead, or you have found the remainders of what used to be me._

_You're probably shocked to see that I am/was alive, and I'm at the moment not capable to explain, so I'll do it now:_

_I needed to fake my suicide in order to keep you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade safe._

_Now, I have to go off and kill the rest of the web off, so it's safe for you. But…_

_I know how much pain I'm causing you, and I can't bear the thought of it…_

_So I've decided to delete the memory of you, 221B, and pretty much everything else, because sometimes it's better to forget why you're doing something then to remember the pain it's causing you. _

_You called me a machine before I left. I've always thought I was one, and what I'm about to do is the ultimate proof._

_I'm sorry, John._

_-SH_

John crumples the page together and feels the tears pouring down his face. So there's no going back to normal now.

He reaches for the gun that's also next to him and points it at his head, about to pull the trigger.

_**A/N: First of all, I am soooooo sorry I haven't updated in such a long time! I just completely forgot but here you go with chapter four then. Hope you enjoyed it! I know I brought in another cliffhanger and I apologize in advance! But you can probably guess what happens next. Or not. Whatever. See ya!**_


End file.
